


warm where the blood pools

by certifiedclown, searchandrescue



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Beverly Katz Lives, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Complicated Relationships, Dark Will Graham, Endgame Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Family Feels, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, Jealous Will Graham, M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Murder Husbands, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Possessive Will Graham, Sassy Will Graham, Trans Will Graham, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, Will Graham Doesn't Care, Will Graham Doesn't Need Help, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is a Cannibal, Will is a Mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29059239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certifiedclown/pseuds/certifiedclown, https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchandrescue/pseuds/searchandrescue
Summary: After being framed for a series of murders he didn't commit, Will turns to the only person he knows he can rely on: his father.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Jack Crawford & Will Graham, Jimmy Price/Brian Zeller, Will Graham & Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham & Beverly Katz, Will Graham & Will Graham's Dogs, Will Graham & Will Graham's Father, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

daddy CALL

xxx-xxx-xxxx more options

* * *

what kinda animals get stuck in chimneys

Raccoons and possums. 

Squirrels, sometimes.

You got something in your chimney, boy?

i thought so yeah

broke through the wall

there's nothing there

You probably scared whatever it was off.

yeah

It's probably fine.

Don't worry bout it.

okay

* * *

i heard another animal today

i thought it was in the road

sounded like it was hit

daddy there was nothing there

i'm hearing things now

Are you sure?

yeah

It could've been from further off. You've always had better hearing than most.

okay

If it's bothering you, talk to your psychiatrist friend. See what he's got to say bout it.

okay i will

Don't be afraid to call if you need me, you hear me? 

Hell, call me even if you don't.

i will

* * *

i lost time today

i was at the beach and then i blinked and i was waiting at dr lecter's office

what's happening to me?

You think it might be stress? Those crime scenes of yours always did shake you.

that's what dr lecter said yeah

Well, he's a professional. He knows what he's talking about.

i don't wanna be crazy

this can't be mental

it has to be physical

Like a tumor? Blood clot or something?

it has to be

It has to be

I hope it ain't. Tumors are bad news, son.

rather it be a tumor

than you know mental illness

Call a neurologist then, schedule an appointment.

i'll ask dr lecter

he used to be a surgeon

he probably knows someone

If he doesn't, that Bloom girl might.

he will

he's going to help me

he promised

Okay.

Be careful.

Lemme know if anything turns up.

i will

* * *

nothing

they’re gonna run more tests but they’re not sure they’ll find anything

hope they do it’s getting worse

contaminated a crime scene

Are you sure you should keep working?

This is bad for you, it always has been.

Maybe you should take a break.

Give your old man some peace of mind.

i can't

i'm saving lives

But what about your life, son?

Don't it matter?

you sound like hannibal

So it's Hannibal now, huh? Sounds like you two're getting cozy.

He's got the right idea. You matter too, Will.

he's my friend

i can't quit

this is what i'm good at

You're good at other things. Just think about?

Please.

i'll think about it

I love you, boy. Take care of yourself.

i love you too

i'll try

* * *

Will? You've gone quiet.

Is something going on?

Call me.

Will.

* * *

i'm scared

Are you okay? What's going on?

Call me and let me know what's going on.

Will? Are you there?

Call me. 

Son, please.


	2. first impressions

Beau Graham knew something was wrong as soon as he heard his phone ringing.  _ Incoming call-- Unknown Number, Baltimore, Maryland _ . 

“Hello? How can I-”

_ “Daddy? It’s me. Listen, I---I need you to come down here. I was framed for several murders and I didn’t do it. No one else believes me, but I didn’t---I didn’t kill those people, daddy.” _ Through the phone, Beau could hear Will draw a shaky breath, like he wasn’t sure Beau would take him at his word.

“I believe you. I’m takin’ the first flight available tomorrow and I’ll take tonight to pack, unless you need me up there now. Just say the word, boy, and I’ll be there.”

_ “No, come tomorrow. It’s nothing urgent, I know I didn’t do it, despite all the evidence to the contrary, and I know the other evidence, the real evidence, is going to let me out and the real killer, the person who did this to me, will be here instead.” _

“What do you need from me, Will? I can’t find you evidence.”

_ “I’m not asking you to. All I’m asking you to do is to be around until it turns up. And,” _ Will let out a sigh.  _ “And I want you to watch the dogs. Alana has them, she’ll tell you---you don’t know who that is. Once you get there, call Jack Crawford. He’ll explain everything, except that I’m innocent, and he’ll be the one who’ll let you see me. They don’t exactly allow walk-ins at the---Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.” _

“Watch the dogs, talk t’Jack Crawford, he’s FBI?”

_ “Yeah, he doesn’t believe me, act like you’re not sure just what to think yet. Things’ll be easier that way.” _

“Got it. Anythin' else?”

_ “Just an ‘I love you’.” _

“I love you too, son. See ya soon.”

* * *

Jack Crawford heard a knock on his office door and looked through it at the man he assumed to be Will’s father. He was around Will’s height, stocky, and looked to be in his sixties. He had greying dark hair with tight curls, and the way he stood reminded Jack of Will, that same quiet waiting.  _ Best not to keep him waiting too long _ , Jack thought, and opened the door.

“Mr. Graham?” 

“Jack Crawford? Nice to meet you, sir.” Will’s father offered a handshake, and Jack accepted. His hand was warm and a little damp. He was anxious. Any father would be, hearing his son had been accused of murder. “Name’s Beau Graham, I’m here ‘bout my son, Will? He said you’d tell me everythin’.”

“Um, yes. Why don’t you have a seat? I’m sure this is a lot to take in.” Jack gestured at the chairs facing his desk. 

“Yessir, it---certainly is.” He held his coat over the back of the other chair, as if to set it down. “Ya mind if I-?”

“No, not at all.” Jack sat down at his desk and Beau draped his coat, an unusually heavy one for the mild weather recently, over the chair and sat in the one next to it. The dress shirt he wore underneath it was barely wrinkled, clearly put on just before coming here.  _ Quite the contrast to Will _ , Jack thought, as he considered where to begin. It seemed best to be direct. 

“Mr. Graham, your son---Will, killed four people.” Jack looked at Beau Graham, who seemed remarkably calm. Not calm, perhaps steady was a better word.

“I know. He says he didn’t do it.” Beau seemed to be asking and telling in equal parts.

“He doesn’t---Mr. Graham, Will doesn’t remember killing those people. He’s sick, and he wasn’t himself when he did it, but the evidence is clear. Will killed them.”

Beau’s face twisted at that, as if he was suffering through some great pain or torment.  _ He is _ , Jack thought sympathetically.  _ He’s just lost his son.  _ He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers together as he regarded the grieving man. Now that he’d taken a good look he could see that stress was clinging to the man like a second skin. It was in the pinched lines on his forehead and eyes, and the worried frown on his lips. He looked like a man on death row - steady, yes, but mournful all the same.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” Jack began, softening his voice as though that could make the words hurt any less. He knew it wouldn’t. “Will was--- _ is  _ my friend, and I don’t want to believe that he was capable of this, but the evidence is...compelling. We can’t hide from this.”

Beau slumped in his chair, rubbing at his eyes tiredly in a movement that was so entirely reminiscent of Will that Jack almost thought he was seeing double for a moment. “Damn,” Will’s father cursed, laughing sadly under his breath. “I was hopin’ it wudn’t true.”

“Me too,” Jack sighed, rising from his seat to cross over to the wounded man. He rested a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed, seeing him out of the room with as much comfort as he could offer. He knew it was empty, but it was all he could do. “Me too.”

He ignored the lingering looks from his subordinates, praying they’d keep their mouth shut until the man was out of the room. Thankfully, his prayers paid off, but when he returned he was assaulted with three wide-eyed stares. Jimmy was the first to break the silence.

“ _ That’s  _ Will’s dad?” he asked in a loud whisper, mouth opening and closing as if he had more to add before he gave up with an intelligible grunt. 

“Yeah,” Jack agreed wryly. “Think we can get a DNA test?”

* * *

Frederick Chilton, Beau quickly learned, was an interesting character. A smarmy man parading his “achievements” around like a peacock. Beau instantly decided he didn’t like him, and that he probably never would. Why on earth would they let a man like that run a hospital for the mentally insane? Beau was more than a little upset that this was the man in charge of his son’s mental and physical well-being while they waited for the trial.  _ And after it, if that man has his way _ , Beau thought, doing all he could not to glare at the man responsible for his son.

“I wonder what neuroses you hide away in that mind of yours, Mr. Graham,” the man said with a slick smirk as Beau walked away with his visitor’s pass. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say.”

As he walked away, he almost bumped into another man dressed in a very expensive looking suit.  _ Damn all these rick folk,  _ he thought, agitated, as he offered up an absentminded apology to the man. Then he looked at him - really looked.

He was tall, with broad shoulders, but his suit made him seem smaller, softer than he really was, almost like it was a purposeful guise to make others feel at ease. His face was an aristocrat’s, with high cheekbones, deep set eyes, and firm lips. A face carved out of marble, a Greek statue come to life. But his eyes. Something in them screamed predator, other - he seemed distinctly not entirely human. Maybe it was the reflected pinpoints of red in his eyes, maybe it was that glimpse of small, crooked teeth carefully hidden behind parted lips, or maybe it was his dark, slicked-back hair with a gentle widow’s peak.

“The South is most commonly known for their hospitality,” the man spoke softly, his voice a quiet whisper that seemed to almost echo in the small, dark lobby of the hospital. Beau somehow knew he was speaking at a normal volume, but it didn’t sound like it. “I am sorry to say Frederick lacks that hospitality.”

“Ah,” Beau said intelligently, careful to keep his voice level. “So you’re my boy’s shrink friend.”

Hannibal blinked at that, the movement oddly careful, somewhere between offended, amused, and assessing. “I am,” he allowed, extending a hand. “Hannibal Lecter. A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Graham, though I wish it were under brighter circumstances.”

Beau took his hand and shook it once in a firm grip. “Beau Graham, pleasure’s mine. Will’s told me all ‘bout you. He really cares ‘bout you, you know.”

Hannibal almost winced at that, as if that statement wounded him. He looked away, to the right of Beau’s head, eyes going distant. Beau didn’t know if he could trust that reaction as genuine or not - something about this well-dressed man rubbed him the wrong way, against the fur. He wondered what Will saw in him to make him trust the man so implicitly. It seemed foolish, but he trusted Will to be a good judge of character.

“I confess I do not know how to feel about that,” Hannibal said after a moment, meeting his eyes once more with thin lips, a pinched look to his eyes. It didn’t look entirely genuine. “On some level, I am happy that he considers me worth telling you about, but I cannot help but feel like I let him down. It almost stings to know that he had such faith in me, and yet I was not able to help him.”

“Makes sense,” Beau grunted, fiddling with the pass clipped to his dress shirt. “I think we’re all a little confused right now. ‘Specially Will.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” it was said softly, the same tone he used before - considering, probing, assessing. He resisted the urge to squirm underneath those dark eyes. “It will be hard for Will to accept that he’s done such horrible things, but in the end he doesn’t have a choice. He needs to overcome this confusion to heal. We all do.”

He said it with such confidence. The evidence against Will was strong. He had heard some details from Dr. Chilton, who relayed them almost gleefully, and if Dr. Lecter agreed? After all, he was the only person who would know if Will was truly capable of those things.  _ Except for Will _ , Beau reminded himself. But if Will hadn’t been himself when he did it, what then? Beau knew that there was a seed of doubt somewhere in his mind, and while he was determined not to water it, he knew the soil where it lay was already rich and fertile as the farmlands he grew up on. He wasn’t sure, not anymore. But damned if he would let Will know that.

Beau opened his mouth - to do what? He didn’t know, but in that moment he felt such anger - but before he could speak, an orderly interrupted. “Mr. Graham?” he asked politely, sparing Hannibal only a cursory glance. “If you’ll follow me, please?”

“I, um,” Beau hesitated, looking to Hannibal for a brief moment before he nodded. “Yeah, okay, lead the way.”

The orderly spun on his heel and began walking away, leaving Beau to give Hannibal a hasty goodbye as he rushed to follow the man. Hannibal simply smiled - an odd twitch of his lips that didn’t quite fit on his elegant features, as if it was borrowed from someone else.  _ Copied and pasted,  _ Beau thought to himself, dryly, trying almost desperately to ignore that damning seed of doubt and the rapidly growing swell of worry as he was led through the hospital.

Dark corridors bathed in darker shadows greeted his weary eyes with something like somber dread. The hospital suddenly felt like the prison it really was. A cage for those deemed too unstable or dangerous to be let loose on polite society. He couldn’t believe his son was one of those people. His boy, who when faced with a run over cat or dog used to cry himself hoarse, and then insist on burying it himself. His little boy, whose first time fishing became an entire ordeal after he asked, in a plaintive tone, why man needed to kill to live, abruptly understanding what it meant to eat the fish his daddy caught.

He couldn’t imagine Will ever doing something like what that Jack Crawford told him, or this Hannibal Lecter. They had to be wrong. Will was too soft-hearted, too kind, too good. It would kill him to unleash that kind of violence on the world.  _ Unless he thought they were deservin’, _ Beau thought, a sardonic smile twitching at his lips as he remembered the righteous rage contained in Will’s gentle hands.

It was still a hard pill to swallow - too large in his hand, foul and rotting against his skin. He didn’t want to entertain the thought. He didn’t want Will to suffer through this. He wanted his son out of the hospital, at home with his dogs, happy and safe. He wanted to shield Will from all of this, hold him tight and never let go. That was his son, his little boy, and they were accusing him of murder.

It made Beau feel sick. And if his hands shake at his sides with barely contained rage - well, that’s between two gentle souls who burn with fire at the unjust.

The orderly stopped suddenly, turning to leave after cocking his head to the cell to the left of them. Beau realized that he had walked through the hospital and passed through the gate. He sighed, steeling himself against the ugly cocktail of worry, grief, and anger mixing in his chest, and stepped forward into the light to stand in front of Will’s small, desolate cell.

As if sensing his presence, Will’s shoulder relaxed, and he turned with the same small smile on his face that he had when he brought yet another skinny dog home - recognizing family. Right then, at that very moment, the reality of what was happening finally sunk in - really sunk in. As he looked at his child, dressed in drab grey, serial number stitched on his shirt, eyes dark with turmoil, he suddenly realized Will wouldn’t survive being locked in a cage. He’d have to get him out. 

“Hey, daddy.”

“Hey yourself, son.”


	3. family reunion

Sitting in his cell, Will Graham heard the hall door open. There were pairs of footsteps, one the soft rubber soles of the shoes the orderlies wore, and the other the heavy, solid sound of a pair of work boots.  _ He’s here _ , Will thought. He wanted to be excited, it’s what a family reunion deserves, but more than anything he felt relief. Safety. Security. This whole thing really might turn out alright. The orderly, he was pretty sure this one was named Matthew, gave the same droning speech they gave all new visitors, and the footsteps stopped. Will turned around with as much of a smile as he could muster, and greeted his father.

“Hey, daddy.”

“Hey yourself, son.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“And you, but I wish it wudn’t like this.” Beau took a cautious step forward. “How--how close am I allowed to stand?” 

“There’s a line,” Will said, gesturing at the concrete floor. Beau stood as close as he could and rubbed his neck, looking at Will apologetically. “Allegedly,” Will continued with a grimace, “It’s there to keep anyone from getting hurt. In reality, it makes sure we speak loudly enough that Dr. Chilton can hear our every word. I assume you’ve met him?”

“Yeah. He’s quite the character. Don’t wanna say too much ‘bout him to his face. ‘Spose I should say hello?”

“I wouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve the courtesy. He certainly doesn’t provide any to his patients. He’s going to want to talk to you, you know that? He’s going to claim it’s to better---understand me, for my therapy. He isn’t my psychiatrist. Dr Lecter is.” Will looked defiantly at no one in particular and hoped Chilton was watching. He probably was. He was dying for any scrap of information he could get.  _ I’m his golden ticket _ , Will thought, and his heart sunk as he thought of Abigail. He was going to stand trial for her murder in two days, and he couldn’t tell anyone who her real killer was. Not if he wanted to ever stand a chance at getting out of this place.

“Funny you should mention the good doctor, he said the same thing. I ran into him after I got my pass.”

“You met Hannibal? What did he say?”

“That Dr. Chilton don’t have any manners. Almost like he was apologizin’, but it wudn’t his fault.”

“I have a therapy session with him in about ten minutes, so they’ll be here to chain me up and drag me over there soon. Remember what I said to you on the phone? I need you to take the dogs. I’ve talked to Alana Bloom, she’s taking care of them now, she’s going to meet you at the house this afternoon. There’s seven of them, and she’ll introduce you. That’s what I need from you, to watch the dogs and to be around. It feels good knowing there’s someone here on my side.” Will walked to the bars of his cell and leaned forward on them, clasping his hands outside the cell and making the orderly take a step forward. “And daddy? I love you.” Will looked up at Beau, this time with a smile he didn’t have to force.

“I love you too, son.” Beau walked over the white line and put his hand on Will’s, and the orderly interjected, leading him away and back down the dark hall. Will watched as they walked away. He knew the gesture was more than fatherly love, just like Beau knew his comment about Dr. Chilton was more than an annoyed aside. When he put his hand on his, he had said just what Will was hoping he would-- _ I’m willing to break the rules for you _ .

* * *

As Beau Graham was being escorted away from his son’s cell, he thought about Will’s last comment.  _ It feels good knowing there’s someone here on my side _ . He was glad to be a comfort to his son, but hearing that from Will agitated the gnawing doubt he was doing his best to ignore. At any rate, he hoped Will was wrong. Dr. Lecter ought to be on his side, at any rate, though Will probably defined “his side” as people willing to believe in his innocence. 

He was on Will's side, despite Hannibal Lecter's insidious words and the festering doubt they inspired, and he'd stay on Will's side. Beau didn't want him in this hospital; he wanted him at home with his dogs, planning a fishing trip for the weekend, and he'd do anything to make that happen. It was an easy decision to make. For better or for worse, he wasn't going to abandon his son.

As Beau walked back through the halls of the dreary institution, he noticed that it became more polished the further they got from the cells. Marble and granite for the visitors, concrete and tile for the prisoners.  _ Figures, _ Beau thought, and felt the same bitter taste in his mouth he had felt so often today, which only grew stronger when he caught a glimpse of that Chilton man’s dark grey suit. He sighed, gathering his composure, and walked forward, refusing to let his posture show how tense he made him. Predictably, the man approached him and Will was right to hate psychiatrists so much.

"A word, Mr. Graham?" he asked, drawing the words out lazily, with an open expression, as if he was completely certain Beau would comply. Beau wanted to sigh again, but he suppressed the urge.

"S’this 'bout Will?" he grunted, shifting his heavy jacket to his other arm to rub at his eyes. He was tired and dealing with this oily man only served to exacerbate his building headache. 

Chilton inclined his head and smirked, full of an obviously unearned confidence. "He is the man of the hour."

"You ain't his shrink, are you?" Beau said bluntly, meeting Chilton's eyes with something akin to disappointment. "I ain't talkin' 'bout Will with you, sir."

"Mr. Graham," his expression fell into something more serious, "this is about his trial."

"Hell," Beau muttered under his breath, rubbing at his eyes again before gesturing vaguely. "Let's get on with it then."

Chilton smiled and spun on his heel, clearly expecting Beau to follow him. He fell in step behind him, tiredly observing the dull colors of the walls as they trekked to the man's office - Jupiter in his palace at the top of the heavens.  _ What would that make Will?  _ Beau thought, grimacing. He didn't have an answer.

Beau found himself in an office which he thought far too grand for a man like Chilton, sitting in a chair across from his desk with his hands folded over the coat in his lap. Chilton sat back in his chair, looking at Beau expectantly. The feeling of being so closely observed made him feel like a lab rat, and in that moment he felt very sympathetic toward anyone who had to deal with this man on a regular basis, violent criminal or not.

"Earlier, I'm afraid I didn't get a chance to offer you my condolences," he began with another smile - this one was oddly secretive, as if he knew something Beau didn't. Beau didn't like that. "This must be a… troubling time for you."

"It was quite the shock, yeah," Beau agreed, allowing himself to relax in the very comfortable chair. He knew how to play this game. 

"Surely you must have had some suspicions about his true nature," Chilton persisted, eyes focused on him. "Of course, you couldn't have predicted… this, but there must have been some signs." He faced Beau less directly as he said this, as if trying to get him to divulge an interpersonal secret at a social event, rather than implicate his own son in crimes he didn’t commit. Beau decided to match his tone.

"Can't say I did," he sighed, pretending to reminisce. "Will was always such a sweet kid - I never thought he'd do somethin' like this."

Chilton was undeterred, but his tone became more serious. "Do you think your son lied to you then?"

"No, sir," he replied. "Will don't often lie. He just likes to leave things out."

"Is it at all possible, Mr. Graham," the man leaned in, "that Will  _ left out  _ anything about his violent impulses?"

Beau frowned at him. "He ain't never had those impulses. My boy ain't violent."

"Mr. Graham," Chilton said, delicately, watching his expression closely before continuing in an almost patronizing tone, "do you know how far back such a thing would have to go? There would have been signs in early childhood."

"No, Will's always been soft-hearted," Beau denied, shaking his head. "He used to cry over roadkill and make me help 'im bury them, and leave flowers at the graves for weeks." He glanced away from him and smiled a little. If Dr. Chilton was as bad a psychiatrist as he seemed, it wouldn’t matter that Beau wasn’t an exceptional actor.

"What about his relationship with people?" Chilton smiled slowly, amused. "From what I've heard, he's quite… antisocial.” He pronounced the word with great care. “Surely that was apparent-"

"Now hold on a damn second. I ain't here to talk 'bout Will with you," Beau interrupted, angry now. "I'm here 'bout his damn trial. Now are we gonna talk 'bout it or can I go?" He moved his coat as if to storm out, and Chilton looked alarmed for a moment before regaining his infuriatingly smug composure.

"They may ask you to take the stand, Mr. Graham, and they're not going to ask you if you think Will did it," Chilton said gravely, eying him warily. "They're going to ask if you think he knew what he was doing. You need to be ready."

Beau regarded him coldly and stood, staring down at the man with disdain before leaving. He had nothing left to say to him, and he wanted to leave this god-awful institution as quickly as possible. He had to meet Will's Alana Bloom, after all. He didn't want to be late.

* * *

By the time Beau reached Will’s house, the sun was setting, and a low fog hung over the fields, illuminated by the last rays of sunlight. The small house looked like a boat on a calm lake, the second story a cabin, the roof the deck. Beau imagined Will sitting on the roof looking out into the woods, or standing in the fields looking back at the house, comfortably distant from the person his home represented, or standing on the porch as his dogs cut trails through the snow and fog.  _ He ought to be here now _ , Beau thought as he parked the rental car next to Will’s.

He had told Alana Bloom he would be running a bit late, and he texted her to tell her he was there, and received an automatic text in response, saying she was driving. Beau sighed, put on his coat, and rummaged through his pockets for the house key he had been given. As he stood there, he saw movement on the porch---a large dog. 

“Hey there! You one’a Will’s?” The dog perked up, but didn’t leave its post. As Beau walked onto the porch, the dog approached him. It was a large brown mottled mutt, and bore a striking resemblance to Will’s first dog, Churchill. It looked healthy, and fed, clearly cared for, but Alana Bloom wasn’t here yet. “You have to be, you look just like Church.” He sat down in the chair by the door, and the dog sat by his legs, leaning on them, keeping them warm against the oncoming cold. 

Before long, he saw a pair of headlights pull into the gravel driveway, and a dark-haired woman in a coat, scarf, and boots stepped out and waved at him. 

“Hi. You must be Will’s dad. I see you’ve already met Winston.” She smiled at the dog on the porch and went to open a back door of her car to let out the other dogs.

“Said his name was Winston? Shoulda guessed.” Beau ruffled Winston’s ears and stood up. “Need a hand?”

“Yeah, if you could get Zoe out of the front seat. Why should you have guessed?” 

“Looks just like Will’s first dog, Churchill. Figures he’d name him after ‘im.” Beau picked up Zoe, a small dog with a prominent underbite. She squirmed to be put down. He set her down among the other dogs now running around. “Who might these be?”

Alana looked around at the dogs as if to make sure they were all there. “Big brown one is Harley, big white one is Jack, black one is Max, and the little ones are Ellie and Buster, and then Zoe and Winston.” She pointed at each dog as she named them, and then at Beau with a sympathetic smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” Beau said, pulling his coat tighter around himself. “Quite the change from Florida. Come inside?”

“Sure.” Alana seemed to have been expecting a different answer.  _ Psychiatrists are used to people talking to them,  _ Beau thought somewhat bitterly, wondering why his son seemed so caged in by them, both literally and figuratively. It was odd and uncharacteristic of Will, and Beau didn't know what to think about it.

"I'll get a fire goin' here in a minute," he told her, holding the door open for her. She smiled at him, nodded her head in thanks, and stepped past him. Beau looked to the dogs milling around the yard and whistled, short and sharp, clicking his tongue twice when their heads turned towards the sound. He smiled fondly when they obediently came inside the house, and closed the door behind them.

"They listened to you," Alana observed quietly as he moved to the fireplace. There wasn't any wood, and now that he was looking at it he wasn't sure the chimney was cleared, so he turned on the heater set in front of it, deciding it would be enough for now. "They've only ever listened to Will."

"Boy's always trained 'em the same way," Beau said, hanging up his coat. He cocked his head toward the kitchen. "Ya want some coffee? I'm 'bout to make a pot."

"Yes, thank you," she said politely, following him into the reasonably sized kitchen area. It was pristine - almost clinically clean. He supposed that was the crime scene cleaners. Alana set a hand on the counter. "I'm sure you've been asked this a lot these past few days, but how are you doing? Really."

"M'fine," he grunted, measuring the grounds to put in the filter before sighing. He finished preparing the coffee and left it to brew, turning to face her with weary eyes. "It's….it's a lot, I'm not goin' to lie. And I don't know what to do."

"It is," Alana agreed, sitting at the table. She gave him a smile - one that was equal parts sad and kind. Beau could see now why Will liked her. "I won't pretend to understand how this is impacting you, but we all care about Will."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he sighed, fingers drumming against the counter behind him. "You're a good lot. Good for Will. But this….this ain't right."

"No, it's not," her voice was soft but there was something like steel in it - a quiet strength. He could  _ really _ see why Will liked her. "It shouldn't have happened at all. It shouldn't have gotten this far."

"What? Will workin' for that Jack Crawford?" Beau shook his head and laughed. It was a dry sound, mirthless. "Will ain't unstable. He knows what he can handle. You don't have to use kiddy gloves with 'im."

"I know," Alana turned her head away to look out of the windows. Beau knew she didn't.  _ None of them understand him,  _ he thought, his chest constricting painfully for his son. Still that same lonely little boy with no friends, always the new kid, always the freak. "But if Jack hadn't pushed him-"

"It ain't Jack's fault," Beau cut her off, turning to tend to the coffee. He pulled two mugs down, gave them a quick rinse, and poured the coffee. He handed one to her and cradled the other close to his chest, as if it would stave off the cold feeling cruelly tugging at his ribs. "Will was just sick, is all. Bad sick, sure, but that don't mean anyone's to blame. Don't go pointin' fingers. Will's a grown man and he can make his own decisions just fine."

In some abstract way, it angered him that people had always treated Will differently because of his empathy. It angered him in an entirely different way to learn that his friends did the same.  _ No wonder he feels like no one's on his side,  _ Beau thought incredulously. He sipped at his coffee and focused on the burn it left on his tongue.  _ They all treat him like a goddamn kid. _

"Okay," Alana said mildly, fingers turning white as she gripped her mug tightly. Beau knew she wanted a reason beyond the sickness to think Will wasn't responsible for what he did, but he couldn't give her one. He didn't want to encourage her way of thinking about Will. It wasn't productive, and would only hurt Will in the end. He couldn't abide by that.

"Do you know Will used to have this stuffed toy of his mama's? He used to keep it in this shoe box bed he made for it when he went to school," he smiled widely, recalling Will's gap toothed smile and tiny hands. "Named it Puppy. He wudn't too creative. Still ain't."

"Really?" she returned his smile, her grip on the mug relaxing. "It's strange to imagine Will as a kid. He always seems so...serious."

"That's what he wants you to think," Beau revealed, shoulder shaking with a barely there chuckle. "He was a wild kid. Soft-hearted, but real rowdy. Liked to climb trees and scare me half to death with it. Think it was his favorite activity - climbin' to high places to look down at everythin'."

"Far away from the rest of the world," Alana said, her voice melancholic. "That sounds more like him."

"Yeah," Beau drained the rest of his coffee, barely blinking as the scalding liquid traveled down his throat. He put it in the sink and stared at the green walls. "Used to think he was a fae child or somethin'. Too precious to be from me and his mama. Had to be a gift from a spirit."

Abruptly, his throat clogged up with something like hurt and he stopped talking, clearing his throat around the lump. It didn't work, and he breathed against the weight of it, tilting his head back with his eyes closed. Alana let him have his moment in silence, looking down into the coffee with a carefully neutral expression. Beau appreciated it, but he didn't feel like hosting her any longer.

"M'sorry," he said with some difficulty, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm not really feelin' like company right now. Uh, could you-?"

"Of course," she said quickly, flashing him another kind smile as she interrupted so he wouldn't have to ask. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too." He managed to see her out, standing by the door to wave as she drove off. As soon as her car was out of sight, he closed and locked the door, placing one hand over his eyes as he leaned against it. "Fuckin' hell."

_ That's my boy, _ he kept thinking over and over again - on repeat. He couldn't make the mantra stop now that it had started. All he could see was Will holding up his first fish, Will dragging home another stray, Will crying over broken lizard tails, Will laughing because Beau said some stupid adult thing again. It suddenly hurt so much, a parent's grief overwhelming all at once. _ My boy,  _ he thought,  _ my little boy. _

It was all he could do not to cry.

* * *

“Hello, Will. It’s good to see you.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Will glared up at Hannibal. “You’ll have to---forgive me, if I can’t quite forget who put me here.” Will folded his hands in front of him on the table of the privacy room, creating a barrier between them. 

Hannibal’s expression shifted to one of concern and pity. It made Will's teeth feel sore and fragile in his mouth, and he had the violent urge to bare them in a snarling smile, to let the heated air of the room sink into the bone and settle deep inside. “Whether you remember it or not, Will, it was your own actions that-”

“Don’t start. Don’t---don’t disrespect me like that. We both know what happened, what has been happening since the moment we met. Now are you going to tell me what you want from me, or leave me to figure it out on my own?” Will allowed some of the hostility he felt toward the man sitting across from him to slip through, enough to make it clear he was serious. Hannibal didn’t react. Will's fingers twitched.

“I respect you very much. You are endlessly fascinating to me, and your approach, though different than my own, is one I admire greatly.” He looked at Will as if he expected him to take it as a compliment instead of the flattery it had to be. He'd have to be disappointed. When Will didn't respond, he continued. “I was called to a crime scene today. I was there to fill in for you, and when I was there, I tried to view it the way you would, see things the way you would see them. Death looks very different through your eyes.” Hannibal placed his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly, mirroring Will.

“And when you looked through my eyes," Will paused, tasting bile at the thought, "what is it you saw exactly?”

“I saw death. I saw the bodies of the victims, and the killer whose victims they were. I saw their lives and fears, and understood them in the context of their fate, and I saw the killer and his needs and beliefs, and understood them in the context of his work, as if through two intersecting panes of glass. Is that how you always see, Will?” Hannibal looked at him, dark eyes scanning his face. Will met his gaze and something in him ached at the sight. He suddenly wanted to look away, to remove himself from those eyes - or maybe he wanted to remove the eyes themselves.

That was a pleasant thought. _Unpleasant_. His fingers twitched again, and he knew without looking that Hannibal had seen it. His mouth felt too small, and his bones too big, this roiling coil of emotions too much to bear. An overfilled glass, splitting underneath the weight.

“No.” Will glanced around the room, and continued with a contempt he knew would be read as envy. He couldn't bring himself to care. Hannibal already knew so much about him. “I don’t have the---luxury of a barrier.”

“Jack Crawford and the FBI no longer have the luxury of you because of that," Hannibal paused and Will risked a look. His eyes were still that strange maroon, still rich with that dangerous beauty that Will hadn't seen before. He could see now. It was too late. "It is your lack of barriers that landed you here.”

“It’s not my lack of barriers that put me here," he hissed, ripping his hands away from the desk to rub at his eyes - to hide from Hannibal's - which took away the barrier between them.  _ Isn't that funny?  _ Will could feel the laugh bubbling up to his ribs. He snapped his teeth around it, swallowing it down, and ignoring the burn and bitterness that came with it. "The barriers crossed weren’t on my end, and they were a very---different kind.” 

"Were they?" Hannibal asked softly. Will closed his eyes behind his hands, refusing the tears burning at their corners, and breathed. He could hear the shift of fabric as Hannibal crossed his legs. "Your friends at the FBI miss you very much, Will. You have left a hole in their lives, a void. It is a shame that you are here, unable to fill it."

"I shouldn't be!" Will snapped, grinding his teeth painfully. He wondered if Hannibal could hear his molars scraping together. "You  _ know _ that and don't say you don't. Don't---don't lie to me."

"I have never lied to you, Will," Hannibal said after a moment. Will let his hands fall to the table, curling them into fists. He breathed and forced himself to meet Hannibal's eyes once more. "I told you I would help you. And I will."

There was something meaningful in the way he said it, as if he knew Will would pick up on it. And Will did, like a loyal dog, and he hated how he could read this man so well, so that it felt like a second nature. It was something involuntary, like breathing, or maybe something like his heart that he couldn't stop if he tried. It disgusted him, and he absorbed the realization that even here, Hannibal surrounded him, pressed in at every corner. It was down to Will's very bones - he had spent months carving his name deeper and deeper until he struck marrow, and he had poisoned it all.

Will looked at Hannibal's eyes again, admired the color, and  _ ached. _

"Okay," he said. He had no choice but to trust him.

* * *

It was the morning of the trial. Will was given a suit to wear in place of his grey-green jumpsuit. It should have made him feel more human, restored his dignity. It did not. He felt like a dog being prepared for a show, groomed to be judged by others with no say in the matter. No, not a dog. A pig. A show pig, brushed and washed and paraded around the fairground, whose slaughter was a celebration for everyone but the pig.  _ At least those judges know what they’re looking at _ , he thought grimly. 

His fate was in the hands of people who did not know and couldn’t hope to understand him, he was going to be spoken for and beseeched on behalf of and pleaded on account of by people with their own agendas unknowingly serving a loftier agenda.  _ A higher purpose _ , Will thought, sickened at the idea.

Hannibal was there, in the courtroom. He was all Will could focus on.

As the evidence against him piled up before the jury, his mind was on Hannibal. He was behind him, across the aisle, and Will could feel him. As the prosecution spun tales of fresh horrors and attributed them to him, he wondered if Hannibal had chosen a special brutality for the murders or if he had been holding back. If that was holding back - his stomach churned, and he set his teeth against it. 

His job during the trial was to look like a sad miserable sick man. Advertising, his lawyer said. He felt sick. It was the only thing he could feel against the oppressive, radiating presence with him in the courtroom, thick and pervasive, tainting everything it touches, like smog. He could almost smell it. It didn’t smell like smog. It smelled sharp, present, like an exposed wire. Like blood.

By the time Jack Crawford took the stand Will could barely see straight. HIs thoughts were abstract, fully realized concepts outside of his control, things he had an awareness of, but no agency over. His face felt heavy and the inside of his mouth felt metallic. 

The man who got him back into fieldwork was going to ensure he never saw the light of day again. It was a tidy little parallel. It was all so very tidy. Meticulous. The space between his lungs felt like it was full of vinegar. 

Jack didn’t denounce him. 

He said he was responsible for what happened. Everyone was so eager to believe he was helpless. He wasn’t. Not then. Only sick. Hannibal gave him clarity, handed him his agency back on a silver platter, on the condition that he use it to do absolutely nothing. His heart pounded, sour in his chest and roaring in his ears.

People were filing out of the courtroom now, and Will’s lawyer was saying something about Jack. Will finally felt like he was coming to, as much as he could. His lawyer was given a package. He opened it. It was a human ear. For a moment Will thought it was Abigail’s other ear. It would be enough to get him out. It wasn’t hers. He was escorted out of the courtroom while it was collected. He wondered briefly if it was Hannibal. It couldn’t be. His presence left the courtroom when he did.

Will learned the next day that the ear belonged to the bailiff working the trial. He was found dead, mounted on a stag’s head, with his lungs removed and his face carved wide. His lawyer thought it might be enough to convince the jury he was framed. This plan required a new expert witness - Hannibal Lecter.

As Hannibal took the stand, Will wondered how this had happened. He wasn’t the one who killed the bailiff, he was sure of it. He hadn’t even put anyone up to it. Somewhere, he had a different admirer. Whoever this one was, his murderous favors were far more helpful than Hannibal’s.  _ Does he really believe he’s helping me? _ He wasn’t sure which was worse, to be the object of special punishment or the unwilling recipient of an experience meant to be enlightening. 

The prosecution was asking about the cause of death now. A gunshot wound, as opposed to Cassie Boyle’s death. Mutilation. Hannibal looked almost dejected as he admitted it. A nice little show for the courtroom as he dealt the final blow to Will’s case. 

There was no escaping a guilty verdict now. 

Hannibal tried to catch his attention. Will ignored him and the false apology on his face. He hated that face and the man who hid behind it. His hands twitched and he imagined strangling him, beating his head against something until there was no head left, breaking bones and bruising flesh. Mutilation indeed. When he went to sleep that night, he dreamed the same.

Will woke up to a call from his lawyer. The judge had been found dead, shot in the chest, same as the bailiff. The trial had to be thrown out. He was soon greeted by Hannibal and Jack, who were there to relay the news personally. This time, when Hannibal tried to get his attention, he gave it. As Jack described the way they found the judge’s body - positioned like the painting behind him, but with his brain and heart on the scales of Justice, Hannibal just looked at Will as a smile crept onto his face. 

Will fought the urge to smile back.


	4. falling into place

“Hey.” Will looked up to see Beverly Katz standing in front of his cell. 

He blinked a few times to clear his head. He had been mulling over last night’s conversation with his father. “You’re not who I was expecting.”

“Who were you expecting?” In truth, he hadn’t been expecting anyone.

“My dad. He came up for the trial.”

“Yeah, about that. It… it feels weird to say congratulations, but I feel like I ought to say something. You really lucked out there. Someone’s looking out for you.” 

“Yep.” He flashed a mirthless grin. “Same person that put me in here. Speaking of, why are you here? It’s not to congratulate me on having some court officials turn up dead.” he stood up to face her.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wasn’t sure you had anyone, seems like everyone here is here about you, not for you. Except your dad. I haven’t met him yet. I’m sure he misses you. We all do. They have Hannibal working the case for you, but it’s not the same.” She rubbed her thumb on the side of her hand.

“So there’s a case? I thought there might be.” Momentarily, Will felt cheated. Of course she was visiting him because she needed something. But no, it was fair. He had come to her when he needed help, and now she was coming to him. Turnabout’s fair play.

“I brought the file, if you wanna see.” She pulled it out of her bag. 

“Sure.” Will took the file through the bars and opened it to find a thick stack of photographs. 

“All people who went missing from their homes without their cars, same as the victims we found in the river. He’s preserving them somehow, but we can’t find a pattern. I mean, he kills across gender, ethnicity, age…” She threw her hands up in a gesture of confusion and crossed her arms, watching Will as he scanned the file. 

“Could you give me a minute?” Will asked, taking the file to his bed to lay the pictures out.

“Of course. Take all the time you need. But Will,” she began, and looked him in his face. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

Will nodded. “It’s not this that landed me here,” he said, gesturing with the file. “I was just sick. I’m getting treatment now. I can look at a case file.” He began to lay the pictures out, arranging them in no particular order. An order emerged, though, or the beginnings of one. He reordered them to see if the pattern held. It did. He was sure of it. He put the photographs back in the file and handed it back to Beverly. “He’s making a color palette.” She looked a little confused, but nodded, her brow furrowed, preoccupied.

“You don’t remember any of it, do you?” It may have been the first time Will had been asked earnestly.

“Well, if I did, I wouldn’t be---here.” He flashed a smile that showed only his top teeth and swallowed, looking down at the floor. He knew what it was like to kill a guilty man. To remember killing innocent people? To have that presence follow him like a spectre, to have a hundred other stimuli making him feel the way he felt when he thought of his throat and Abigail’s ear inside it? It would be better to die than to live with that knowledge. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, Will. It was nice to see you.” Her voice was steady, but there was a discomfort behind it. As she walked away, Will could hear her footsteps. She was walking faster than normal.

* * *

Sometimes it felt like the world was against him, but his stream was always quiet and peaceful. It was calm, a place where he could rest and forget about his current circumstances. It was his favorite place now that he was under Chilton's eager care. It distracted him from the trial, the swirling mess of emotions in his chest, and the dark, seething shadows in his cell. _It's the only thing keeping me sane,_ he thought, mirthless and dry. 

At times, Abigail haunted the waters, and didn't that just make him feel awful, her ghost poisoning his safe place with her presence. It made him feel almost angry, before the guilt would overwhelm him and forced him back into the waking world. He opened his eyes against the echoes of her smile, and stared at his hands. 

They should be stained red, he decided. But they weren't. His hands were clean and colorless, and he clenched them into fists, displeased at the sight. It felt wrong. Even though he knew he hadn't been the one to kill her, he still felt responsible. _All of his crimes are mine, right?_ he asked himself, a smile attempting to tug at his unresponsive lips.

"Mr. Graham," a voice interrupted his musings, and he turned to the sound, meeting the eyes of the orderly with his own before settling them just past his shoulder. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

There was something in the way he spoke that gave Will pause. He shifted on his cot, turning his body to the man before forcing himself to meet his eyes once again. Immediately, he was reminded of Tobias Budge. The orderly - Matthew Brown - had the same darkness hidden inside his pupils. But his eyes didn't carry the same coldness - they were brighter, eager. Will tilted his head to the side. 

"Matthew," he said smoothly, thinking of the horned creature in his dreams as he did so. He smiled. "What did you want to talk about?"

Matthew moved closer, the slow movement reminding Will of a panther. His eyes had the same predatory gleam. "You know, I admire you, Mr. Graham," he smiled, a slow stretch of his lips. His characteristic lisp was gone. "You were in the nest with the FBI, and none of them spotted you. If you hadn't gotten sick, well...."

Will considered that, leaning back on his cot to regard Matthew, a slow roll of his eyes, bottom to top. The young man held himself tightly coiled, but somehow relaxed at the same time. Ready to pounce. His eyelids lowered, and Matthew stepped closer to the bars, eyes rapt.

"Are you the one who killed the bailiff?" he asked, demure, eyelashes fluttering coyly. He was more than pleased to see Matthew's eyes darken at the soft tone. "Did you do that for me?"

"I killed the bailiff for you," he said eagerly, fingers clenching, as if he wanted to reach through the bars and touch Will. His face fell slightly, but his eyes shined as he gazed at Will's face. "I wish I could claim the judge, but that was....someone else."

Will’s tongue darted out to trace his bottom lip. "Do you want to be my friend, Matthew?"

"Imagine if the hawks worked together, Mr. Graham," Matthew said, his voice soft and earnest - wanting. Will tilted his head to the side, exposing the warm expanse of his neck. The younger man's eyes fixated on the sight. "The little songbirds wouldn't stand a chance."

_Shrikes are songbirds_ , Will thought abruptly. His fingers twitched against the drab blanket of his cot and his chest clenched oddly. Something hot and pleasant pooled in his stomach. He bit his lip and the feeling dissipated, replaced by the heavy weight of grief. _Abigail was a shrike._

He closed his eyes, inhaled, and forced himself to meet Matthew's adoring gaze. He smiled. "You can call me Will."

* * *

It was all Will could do to sit still as he waited for Hannibal to arrive. He glanced around the privacy room, looking to see which walls reflected each other, so he could watch for Hannibal without making it obvious he was eager to see him. He was surprised Chilton was letting them use the room for therapy. Will had insisted on it, claiming that he couldn’t benefit from therapy if he didn’t have a sense of security. He started tapping his finger on the table, the sound echoing on the concrete and glass. Maybe it wasn’t too surprising that he was in here. Chilton was afraid of him, and fear is easily exploited. 

Will froze as he saw the reflection of movement on the wall. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, but his heart was pounding. As Hannibal opened the door, he wondered if he could hear it. 

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal draped his coat over the back of the chair before sitting down.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter.” Will said it as smoothly and sweetly as he could manage, taking care to advertise that he was hiding something.

“Where should we begin? So much has happened since we last spoke at length.” Hannibal looked at Will, waiting for a response. Will knew he wanted a thank you. He wasn’t going to get one.

“I made a friend.” Will smiled, but the slight curve of his mouth did not reach his eyes. Hannibal’s lip twitched momentarily into a frown.

“Friendships provide an essential support structure during difficult times. Tell me about this friend. Who is he?” Hannibal put an arm on the table, leaving the other hand in his lap, and Will realized he was missing the armrests on his chair in the office. Will kept his hands folded on the table.

Will shot a glance at Hannibal. “He’s the one who killed the bailiff for me.” Hannibal hadn’t seemed to be expecting that answer. Good.

“He wrote you a poem, Will. How will you respond?” Hannibal uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, mirroring Will’s posture, an expression of careful concern on his face, assessing.

“Oh, I’ve already responded, Dr. Lecter. It’s nice having a friend.” He looked down at the table, then back up at Hannibal. “He’s not the only one, though. Matthew Brown is not the only person who’s killed someone for me. And I haven’t had the chance to speak to the other killer yet.” Something in Hannibal’s demeanor shifted. He felt closer, now, though he had not moved, as if he were allowing Will a peek behind the curtain. Will left the curtain well alone. “It’s good to know I have a friend who’s willing to go that far for me.” He looked Hannibal in the face, challenging him. 

Hannibal took the bait.

“How do you know you only have one?” Hannibal pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, slighted.

Will took a deep breath and tapped his hand on the table. “I guess I don’t.” He looked back up at Hannibal and vaguely gestured toward him, shrugging. “It’s nice to be understood.”

Another frown. “Did Matthew Brown think you understood him? Is that why he reached out to you?” He watched Will, as if noting his reaction. If Will didn’t know better, he would think it was jealousy. 

“No,” Will said, expressing the contempt he imagined Hannibal felt toward people who were overly presumptuous. “He thought he understood me.” He bared his teeth, equal parts smile and grimace. “He didn’t. He’s not---he’s not clever enough to see me. He sees black and white, and misses the--nuance that can be found in grey areas.”

Hannibal nodded. “A shame to spend so much time hiding in the shadows and fail to see the beauty in them.” 

“There may be hawks and songbirds, but there are far more… interesting beasts to be found.” Hannibal took the compliment. Funny how he fell so easily for the same trick Will was mocking to him.

“There are shrikes,” Hannibal said, probing.

“Shrikes are songbirds, Dr. Lecter. The way Matthew Brown sees it, the hawks are above them. You and I. But he’s wrong. The world is a lot more interesting than that.” He watched Hannibal, assuming the same quiet self-assurance Hannibal used on him. 

Hannibal seemed pleased by that. “There are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in his philosophy.”

“He uses that philosophy to understand, but it prevents him from gaining a true understanding. He sees a truth which is not feasible, and refuses to look at anything else.”

“Understanding does not always require philosophy, Will. Yours doesn’t.” Will wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. He shifted in his seat.

“You seem awfully sure about that, doctor.” He allowed Hannibal a moment of doubt, and then continued. “I don’t need philosophy to understand. I’m not like you. I see you, and I’m not impressed.” He considered adding the comment that Hannibal’s hidden depths were neither as hidden nor as deep as he would like to believe, but he thought better of it. He had said enough for now. 

Hannibal looked wounded, but spoke with concern. “It offers me a barrier. You said before that you don’t have that luxury.” 

Will inhaled sharply. “I don’t.” He let his eyes go blank for a moment. “But now I have a friend.” Hannibal sat back, crossing his legs, creating again that distance he maintained for everyone except Will. _He wants to be seen. He wants me to see him. And he’s willing to kill to make that happen._

An orderly knocked on the door of the room. Will looked up at Hannibal, almost triumphant. “It looks like our time is up. I’ll see you soon, Hannibal.” He hid it well, but Will knew Hannibal was touched. 

“See you soon, Will.”

* * *

As he made his way back through the halls of the hospital, Hannibal turned Will’s parting words over in his mind. _Hannibal_. It was so rare that Will used his first name. He was proud of the progress Will had made. He was learning to set himself apart, to invite the distance from others rather than resent it. He was above them, and he was beginning to see it. He was finally willing to see it. 

Hannibal stopped a nearby orderly. “Do you know if Dr. Chilton is occupied at the moment?” The young man shook his head, not meeting Hannibal’s eyes. 

“He has a meeting at four, but nothing else today.” He looked down the hall as if he were unable to focus - or uninterested in focusing - on the conversation. Hannibal nodded and smiled at him.

“Thank you-” he glanced at the nametag. Matthew Brown. “Matthew.” Matthew nodded and started back down the hallway. 

So that was Will’s friend. He barely looked capable of killing. He was small, almost boyish, and clearly believed himself better because of his capacity for violence without remorse. Exactly the sort of person to shoot someone before displaying them. The gun was an extension of the distance he thought made him superior. He would know superiority before he died. Hannibal would make sure of that.

Hannibal knocked on Frederick’s door. He was about to knock again, expecting he was eavesdropping on his patients and hadn’t heard the knocking, when the door opened. He didn’t look too pleased to see him.

“Dr. Lecter.” 

“Hello, Frederick.” Hannibal smiled politely at him. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” He returned a forced smile and opened the door. Hannibal stood by the desk, waiting to sit down until Frederick had. His laptop was on his desk, closed, and a glance at the loop of headphone wire sticking just out of a hastily closed desk drawer told Hannibal he had been right in assuming the reason he was so late answering the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Hannibal sat down, draping his coat on the back of the chair. “I have a request,” he said, looking earnestly at Frederick. 

“Do you? I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine. Would you like some?” Frederick looked at him expectantly. He was so desperate to maintain a sense of power around Hannibal. It was only polite to accept.

“Yes, please.” Hannibal watched as he walked over to the cabinet where he kept his wine. 

“Red, or white?” Frederick looked back at him, two glasses in hand.

“Whatever you were going to have. I trust your taste.” Frederick scowled at that, but it was true. His taste was different than Hannibal’s own, and rather obviously began to be developed as a manifestation of his nearly all-consuming envy of the success of his more prestigious peers, but it had matured over time into something more complete and coherent, and his envy along with it, into a jealousy of Hannibal so strong he could almost smell it. Frederick returned with two glasses of a light red wine and handed one to Hannibal. 

“I have a meeting in just under an hour, so while I would love to sit and chat, I’m afraid we won’t have the time. What is it you need from me?” He raised his glass to his face, then set it on the table. Hannibal gave him a moment to savor the satisfaction of being petitioned by him, and took a sip of the wine, a Spanish grenache.

He set his glass down. “I want you to have Abel Gideon transferred back here.” 

Frederick opened and closed his mouth, lost for words. “You mean Dr. Abel Gideon? The man who tried to kill me? Who took my kidney? You want me to bring him back… here.” He pointed at his desk, touching his finger to it. “Absolutely not.”

Hannibal took another sip of the wine, taking care to seem sympathetic. “To be completely fair, Frederick, I don’t think he was trying to kill you. He was leaving that job to the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“That’s not any better,” Fredrick said, his voice high pitched with emotion. He stood up, leaning both hands on his desk. “He killed a nurse. And three other employees at this hospital, and all but two of his former psychiatrists, and not for a lack of trying.” He took a sip of his wine and looked down at Hannibal. “Why do you ask?”

Hannibal looked at the carpet and licked his lips, as if he were sorry to say the reason. “I need him as part of my therapy for Will Graham.” Frederick stared at him, shocked, and he continued. “I think it would be… beneficial to Will if they were allowed to talk, and it would be easiest to facilitate that if he was returned to this facility.”

Frederick seemed to be at a loss for words. Why shouldn’t he be? Will Graham was insult to injury. He sipped his wine, but didn’t seem to taste it. “Dr. Lecter-”

“I know you’re upset that Will Graham is not under your direct psychiatric care. It’s an upsetting thing, to be denied something in your own domain. I know it was Will that refused you, but I hope you do not take it out on him by refusing me the things I require for his care.” Hannibal sipped his own wine thoughtfully, a natural pause to seem more reasonable. “Frederick, you must understand that I ask you this out of a concern for Will’s wellbeing, not a lack of concern for yours. As the head of this hospital, it is your responsibility to provide for the care of your patients. I would hate to have to speak to anyone regarding this.”  
  


Frederick leaned an arm on the back of his chair so he was slightly behind it. “If your care involves Abel Gideon being back under my roof…” He looked Hannibal up and down and shook his head slightly. “This must be a form of radically unorthodox therapy.”

“Less so than you would think.” He made eye contact. “I’m sure the state board would be very interested in your own experiences with Dr. Gideon and unorthodox therapy.” Hannibal took great pleasure in watching the color drain from his face.

Frederick gulped. “I’ll--I’ll make some phone calls.”

“Thank you. I would love to stay, but I’m sure you need to get ready for your meeting.” Hannibal stood and took his coat, giving him the opportunity to escort him out. He didn’t take it. No matter. He had already opened a far more important door for him. Hannibal smiled to himself as he remembered Will’s orderly. More than one door had been opened for him today.

* * *

Sleep did not come easily to Will that night. He kept dreaming about killing. He dreamed that he was being killed by the creature, or that the creature was killing someone else, or that he was killing, and though he could not see himself in those dreams, he knew if he saw his shadow it would have antlers. Guilt would have been a relief, but he knew he couldn’t feel any. Not about this. Borrowed emotions wouldn’t make the restlessness go away. 

He was tired, body and mind, but he couldn’t stay asleep. It was like another mind, beyond his own, above it and inside it, was awake for the first time, and he was helpless to quiet it. It did not answer to him. He lay awake on his cot, focusing only on the foreign energy that had taken hold of his mind. If it was electric, it was electric in the way that industrial lighting was electric - a low hum permeating through everything he heard, harsh light, and not meant to serve humans, only meant to allow them to be of service. Will focused on the electricity sounds he could hear, and managed to drift back into a restless sleep.

As Will picked at his breakfast, he wondered if Matthew was dead. He wondered If Jack Crawford was going to ask him about his death. He wondered if Hannibal shot him, killing him in a way he would understand. No. _He’s--better than that_ , Will realized. His death would be designed to be foreign to him, outside his understanding. His dying thought would be that he had been bested. He wondered what Hannibal would take from him. His heart, probably. He wondered what Hannibal was doing with the organs. He felt a heavy dark feeling in his head and chest as he realized. _He’s eating them._

Will spent the morning sitting with the knowledge. How many times had he eaten with Hannibal? How many of those times had he been honest about the food? How many times had he discussed a case over a dinner made of the murder victims? Had he eaten Abigail Hobbs after all? More than anything, Will wanted to escape to the stream, but he didn’t dare. He didn’t want to poison the waters. He just had to hold out for another few hours. His dad was coming to visit.

He didn’t want to eat his lunch. It felt wrong to eat, somehow, like he was disrespecting Abigail. If his body was her final resting place, then he shouldn’t. It felt like trampling on a grave. He knew it wasn’t reasonable. If she had been disposed of properly, she had a thousand final resting places scattered to the winds. If she was part of him now, then his body kept her alive. The disrespect would be to not eat. He believed it. He had to believe it. He still couldn’t shake the feeling. _Abigail Hobbs, buried among prison food._ Will felt sick.

Relief finally came in the sound of Beau’s work boots echoing down the hallway. Will stayed on the bed, and Beau stood in front of the cell with his hands in his pockets.

“Hey Will.”

“Hi daddy.”

“Tried to make you cookies.” Beau put his hands deeper in his pockets.

“Tried?” Will propped his arms up on his knees.

“Well, I succeeded in makin' 'em, but it turns out I’m not allowed to bring 'em t'ya. Figured I might could, since it don't take a fork or anythin’ to eat ‘em. Guess not.” He looked at Will apologetically. 

Will shrugged. “It’s the thought that counts. Someone’s probably enjoying them.”

“Well I hope they choke on ‘em. They were meant for you.” Beau reached inside his jacket, then paused. He looked at Will and mouthed “ _Camera?_ ” 

Will nodded and Beau put his hand back in his pocket, disappointed. “When I was sick, Hannibal brought me chicken soup, only he didn’t call it that. He had these high-end tupperwares and he called it ‘selkie chicken in a broth.’ Not chicken soup, that’s for us common folk. ‘Selkie chicken in a broth.’” Will shook his head.

Beau made a face. “If meat ‘n broth ain’t a soup, then what is?”

“Exactly. It didn’t even have noodles in it.” Will smiled at Beau’s look of confusion.

“What, is he too fancy for noodles in his chicken soup?” He looked incredulous.

“Must be.” Will felt his headache return, and he rubbed his eyes to clear it. He shouldn’t have brought up Hannibal’s cooking. He inhaled sharply. “So, how are the dogs?”

Beau brightened at the mention. “They’re good. I keep losin' Buster, he hides under things. I always worry he’s got out an’ a snake’s gonna get ‘im. Not that you have snakes here, and it’s too cold for 'em anyway. It’s almost too cold for me, an’ I make my own body heat.” 

Will dropped a knee, letting that arm fall in his lap. “Not living in Florida has its pros and its cons.” He blinked, bewildered. “Do snakes really eat dogs down there?”

Beau shrugged. “Maybe not, but they’re always talkin’ about it on the news how they could. They’re big enough, I once saw a snake near as big around as your leg. Could take a dog easy. Mostly eat rabbits though, lady whose husband’s boat I worked on had some that were givin’ her hell and tearing up her garden, one day a snake took care of ‘em for her.” 

“Huh. Remember when mom tried to grow a vegetable garden? We had bushels of squash and a singular tomato.” Will smiled, remembering the jokes they had made about the “zucchini recipe” - leaving a basket of zucchini on a neighbor’s doorstep and being long gone before they could catch you.

“She was prouder of that tomato than she was the squash. Funny thing that, those were some damn good squash.” He smiled at the ground, a vague melancholy darkening his face to bittersweet. 

“They were. I could grow a garden this summer. Might have a bit of trouble keeping the dogs out of it, though. They’re good dogs, but they’re so used to-” 

The hall door slammed shut, echoing down the hallway. A set of footsteps echoed down the hall, high-heeled boots by the weighted clicks, and Will looked at Beau, raising an eyebrow. He shifted in his cot, hands resting on the edge as he prepared to stand. Beau turned to face the newcomer, a blank look of polite curiosity in his face, and Will stepped closer to the bars, something he didn't know had been squeezing in his chest easing at the sight of Beverly.

Her eyebrows were furrowed in concern and confusion, eyes taking in Beau's easy stance and Will's relaxed shoulders before it cleared. She smiled. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"No, no," Will shook his head and returned her smile with one of his own - it didn't feel like pulling teeth. "Bev, this is my dad. Daddy, this is Beverly. She's a---friend."

"Oh, so we’re friends then?" her smile widened. She looked genuinely happy at the admission. Will's lips tugged upwards again in another smile. "Thanks, Graham, for the notice."

"You're welcome," he retorted dryly, an odd bubbly feeling in his chest swelling when she laughed at that. A glance at Beau revealed him to be watching with a soft expression in his face - relief and a sad fondness. 

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Beau said, all Southern charm. Beverly laughed again, delighted, and shook his offered hand. "Name's Beau. Thank you kindly for lookin' out for my boy there. He needs it."

"Sometimes," she agreed with a nod, and another smile thrown at Will - this one had a distinctly affectionate edge to it. "I'm just trying to be here for him when he needs me."

To Will's surprise and discomfort, that statement caused something hot and prickly to sting the back of his eyes, and he realized abruptly that he was tearing up. He blinked rapidly and dismissed the moisture, clearing his throat loudly against the sudden lump blocking his airways. _How pathetic_ , he seethed inwardly. _No wonder it was so easy for Hannibal to manipulate you_.

"Uh, what're you here for, Bev?" he forced himself to ask, pressing his lips together in a thin line as he studied the slight discoloration of the floor. "Is it about the case?"

She sighed. "Yeah, sorry, I didn't wanna bring this to you again, but I don't know what else to do."

"It's fine," he shook his head and pushed an arm through the bars, holding his hand out for the file. "Hand it to me, I'll look at it."

"Now hold on-" Beau started, but Will shook his head again. Beau rubbed at his jaw roughly and sighed. "Will, should you really-?"

"It's fine, daddy," Will said calmly, looking at him meaningfully. "I can do it, don't worry."

"M'always gonna worry 'bout ya," Beau mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "S'what daddies do, Will."

"I'll be fine," Will said firmly. Beau nodded and waved his hand in a vague gesture. Will smiled and turned back to Beverly. "C'mon, let me look at it."

"Okay," she said, eyes darting forth between he and Beau a few times before she passed it over. Will ignored the wide smile on her face, and opened the file, watching from the corner of his eye as her expression turned somber. "Again, I’m sorry for doing this, but something’s just not right about it and Hannibal is---kinda shit at doing your job, I won't lie. He's not a great replacement."

Will snorted. "Don't let him hear you say that, you'll hurt his feelings," he paused, eyes roving over the pictures and text before he closed the file. 

Beverly stepped closer. "What've you got?" Will closed his eyes to consider, then opened them.

"Well, whoever did this is a practiced hand at it. This isn't the first time he's removed a limb. Or sewn someone up," he said quickly, tapping the back of his knuckles against the folder as he talked. "He'll probably have killed before, too. There's no hesitation, no nervousness. Just---a deep appreciation for the art. He felt... compelled to complete his work, but he wanted to execute his own vision. He's a sadist, intelligent, and he needs control. He'll be very hard to catch."

"Will, that's---are you-?" she halted, eying him thoughtfully before holding her hand out. Bemused, he passed the file back to her. "Thanks, Will, I appreciate it."

"Of course," he said after a moment, brows furrowed. He knew she wanted to say something else, but she held her tongue. He scrutinized her before pushing the matter away. He could ponder on it later. "How's---how's the rest of, uh, the gang doing? Price and Zeller, I mean."

Beverly smiled, amused. "Well, they’re as annoying as ever. All they do is bicker. They haven’t been dating long, but they’re like an old married couple. You know, Jimmy corrected Hannibal on pronunciation ten minutes after meeting him. I've never seen anyone look so politely offended before. It was great."

Beau laughed. "Yeah, that little shrink friend a' yours, Will, he's a real fancy piece a' work. His suits are a mess, ain't they? Real funny lookin'."

"That's rich people for you," Wil shrugged before he smiled secretly. "I think he does it on purpose."

"What, dress up in three different patterns?" Beverly raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "Are you sure he's that aware? I thought it was just a European thing."

"Me too," Beau agreed. "Europeans are just like that, Will. Like us and plaid."

"No," Will insisted, shaking his head, "I really think he does it on purpose! To see if anyone will say anything to him about it, but no one ever has, so he still does it. It's---it's a power move."

"'Power move'?" Beverly repeated, her pitch raising as her eyes widened. "Will, I didn't even know you knew what lingo was!"

"Of course I know what lingo is," Will frowned. "Just because---just because I'm not social doesn't mean I live under a rock, Bev. And anyway, it’s not even lingo, it’s just a thing people say."

"Will's always been on the internet," Beau provided helpfully. "He's real big on stayin' up to date and such. I don't understand it."

“I have to,” Will interjected. “I teach college students.” It didn’t help.

Beverly smiled again, wide and beaming and playful. "I can't wait to tell the guys. Zeller's gonna lose his shit."

"Please don't," Will sighed, head tilting back as he did. "You'll ruin my reputation."

"Son," Beau said seriously, and Will looked at him, concerned, "your reputation is already good and ruined."

Will's mouth fell open in shock and Beverly let out a loud guffaw, sides shaking as she tried to reign in her amusement. Beau simply gave Will a tiny, satisfied smile when Will reluctantly chuckled. 

"Well," Beverly said once she'd regained her breath, "I think that's my cue to leave. See you later, Graham crackers."

And with that, she gave them a cheeky, two fingered salute and left. Will watched her back disappear behind the gate and finally turned to face his father again. Beau smiled at him, a wide grin that displayed his teeth.

"I like her," he said approvingly. "She's good for you. You deserve good friends."

Will returned the smile. "I like her too.”

* * *

The next day was just like the others he'd spent at the hospital so far. It was slow, dull, and dreary. It felt like he was walking through thick molasses, and he found himself wishing for time to crawl by faster. It did differ a little from most days, though. Matthew Brown was late for work - _or_ _missing_ , a little voice said gleefully. _Maybe Hannibal's left him for you._ Will ignored that voice, crushed it down, silenced it. He didn't want to entertain thoughts like that; he didn't want Hannibal so far inside his head that he couldn't get him out. 

_Might be a little too late for that_ , he thought, noting the unwanted relish and excitement as a group of orderlies converged at his cell with the typical transportation equipment in tow. Obediently, he turned around and held his arms out as they unlocked his cell door and filed in after each other, methodically strapping him in. He held himself perfectly still as they put the mask on his face, tightened it around his skull, and pulled him onto the wheeled dolly. _Careful_ , he thought with dry humor. _Aggressive animal, will bite._

As they lifted him into the back of the van and began travelling to their destination, he wondered, nervousness and anticipation mixing around in his gut, what Hannibal had done to Matthew. Surely that had to be what this was about. _The Chesapeake Ripper strikes again_ , he thought, stomach squirming oddly - unwanted. _Jack will be so pleased_.

When he was lowered out of the van, he was greeted by the familiar flashing blue and red lights and FBI vehicles. There were a few reporters, and he idly searched through them for that telltale flash of red. He had no doubt that Freddie Lounds was on the prowl. What a scoop she would get today.

The observatory was grim and still, and as he was rolled in, he wondered if he looked the same. Frederick Chilton’s tender care had an accurate reputation - unpleasant and ineffective. He probably looked as dead and ghostlike as he felt. Maybe he looked like Matthew in that regard. Hannibal wouldn't like that.

Jack's grim face was the first he saw, and he looked at his eyes briefly before settling to stare at the bridge of his nose. "Thanks," Jack said to the orderlies, his tone dry. "I'll take it from here."

The two workers hesitated, looking from Jack to Will to Jack’s firearm. They left easily enough, obviously assured that Will wouldn't try anything stupid. Jack efficiently freed him of his bonds and he stepped down, taking the dehumanizing mask off with a heavy sigh.

"Come on," Jack said tiredly, "you need to see this. Through there."

Will went where he had pointed, stepping into the wide room with the telescope in it, only to halt at the sight of Matthew Brown. It wasn't an overly shocking sight, of course. He'd expected it, known it would be him. But he hadn't expected the presentation. The message.

Matthew was on his knees with his arms at his sides, raised in surrender, hands splayed wide in submission. _Worship_ , a voice whispered. His chest was hollowed out, the front of his ribs gone, skin peeled back - the lungs and heart were missing. _You take my breath away,_ Hannibal said softly. _You've taken my heart for your own_ . And his eyes - they were gone, replaced with groups of dianthus (considered as the flower of the gods, a divine flower) barbatus. _Sweet Williams_ , the man whispered in his ear, _admiration, passion, capriciousness, affection, love and gratitude._

_I love you_. 

It was a beautiful message. Will stared at it with wide eyes, unable to look away for several moments. He was completely caught off guard. He didn't know what to do with this information - _yes, I do_ , he thought, lips thinning.

"The flowers are Sweet Williams," Jimmy Price said once he'd noticed him. "Their meaning is actually quite interesting-"

Will cut him off. "I don't think the meaning matters."

He looked away, back at the display, and just barely caught Zeller looking at Price with triumph clear in his eyes. Jack crossed his arms and stepped closer. Will noticed the gun was gone, tucked away, out of sight. He smiled grimly at that. _At least he trusts me enough not to kill him_ , he thought with no small amount of bitterness.

"Well?" Jack probed. "Is it the Ripper?"

"Yes," Will sighed, rubbing at his eyes, "It's him."

Jack nodded. "What's his message this time then?"

"He---somehow he got too close, saw something he shouldn't have," Will halted, grinding his teeth. "Jack, this is an orderly. He was---he was sympathetic to me. Wanted to help me, he said. I think the Ripper didn't---like that."

"So he got too close to you," Jack said, eyes serious. "The Ripper wants you isolated then. Why?"

"Because I'm the only one who can catch him, Jack," Will smiled, but it came out more like a grimace. "Why would he want anyone helping me? Why else would-?"

He stopped, turning away to look at Matthew's corpse - Hannibal's love letter to him - again. Jack didn't say anything, but he could feel his eyes on his back - burning.

"He got too close, and this is his punishment. He saw something he shouldn't have and had his eyes taken away, but the Ripper couldn't have left it at that," Will laughed without humor. "No, he had to tell us why he did it. He loves an audience to show off to."

"And the organs?" Jack asked. 

Will closed his eyes. "The same--humiliation as usual. He's expressing his disdain, his---hatred for someone he considers lesser. No better than a pig. Matthew proved himself unworthy."

Jack said nothing to that. He only nodded tightly and escorted Will back to the straitjacket and mask. It took longer to get into it all with only one person securing the various straps, but by the time the orderlies returned Will was once again immobile and helpless. Before they took him away, Jack met his eyes. 

"Thank you," he said and Will closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of grief in the other man's gaze. He didn't do it fast enough, and the weight of the emotion pressed down on his ribs on the long drive back to the hospital.

By the time he was back in his cell, free of the jacket and mask, he was exhausted and more than a little emotionally drained. But his mind wouldn't quiet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Hannibal's gift to him - the proof of his affection for Will. The man's soft dulcet tones echoed in his head like a melody designed to torment and comfort him all at once, and when he finally did manage to fall asleep, it was fitful, and left his mouth tasting of blood.

At his next therapy session with Hannibal, he sat in his seat calmly, his expression docile. And when Hannibal took his seat and looked at him, he turned his head and allowed him a warm smile. It didn't feel quite real, or like it really belonged to him, but it echoed the strange warmth in his gut, and it must have been more than enough for Hannibal, for he returned it.

"I got your message," Will said, meeting Hannibal's blood colored eyes. He leaned forward and whispered, " _Thank you_."


End file.
